Reflex
by Reminscees
Summary: After all these years, maybe it was just a reflex. A discussion of Alfred and Arthur's, or America and Britain's, relationship: A reflex, a pull, a combination that began in an unusual situation, but started long before.


The skies belonged to America, they were as endless and free as he was, in his mind.

It was like a reflex.

It was what he wanted to do before he even knew it was possible, before he even knew the world was round.

England never did have quite the same connection to the sky as he did. He had his blue shores clashing with his proud green island.

America understood that.

He did _not_ understand the business of wars, and how casually and elegantly England approached them. A colonial upstart- Yet England and he were friends. Right? Something like that. They were ... a _they_. They danced together a while ago, and talked a lot, and maybe they were dating. Or not? How should America know?

It wasn't like there was some kind of form he could make England fill out. England was good at filling out forms. He always did America's paperwork, but only because if _he_ didn't, no one else would. He was just helping the war effort.

It seemed like everything England did nowadays was for the war effort- He was always so focused and precise.

America liked that.

He liked England.

It was a clear fact.

He kissed his cheek once.

Twice.

Once in the morning when he returned from an air raid in Germany and found that England was sleeping, resting in preparation for his own raid in mere hours. He looked so peaceful and young. It made America's heart hurt. So he knelt down and kissed his cheek- Just like that. He was too tired to think anything from it. England woke up from the motion, sat up, and stared at America with tired eyes, blinking twice. America froze. His ears were ringing and his fingers were tingling. England then promptly grabbed America by his jacket and pulled him down into his bed. Both of them fell quickly asleep, and neither spoke. England left an hour later. America awoke with a sad smile and a sigh.

The second time was slightly different. It was a reflex.

A _reflex_.

It felt _natural_.

England was fussing to America that he arrived- he insisted on flying out with his boys- late to a meeting with Roosevelt and Churchill and some important generals and military officials. He pulled America forwards into the hall and walked with him to the meeting, complaining the entire way, with quick steps and a straight war-time posture that suited him too well. He adjusted the folders he was holding and stuck them under his arm, then adjusted America's tie and jacket. He stared at America. America smiled brightly and kissed him on the cheek, pulling him closer by his waist, and opened the door.

England leaned into the kiss.

_England_ leaned into the _kiss_.

He _leaned_ _into_ the kiss.

America mentally high-fived himself.

He blamed the whole thing on the fact that he had returned from a rather horrible dogfight.

The oh-so-familiar survivor's guilt was aching and eating away in his heart. It was unfair- It really was.

It was the opposite of romantic.

Romance wasn't _really_ America's _thing_, or England's, anyway.

Romance also wasn't _really_ appropriate in wartime- In tents, next to ammunition crates, in bunkers, in Spitfires, on the battlefield.

America pondered about the question of love as well. Nations couldn't love- Could they? They were nations. The representatives of a group of people.

But still.

He felt this incredible _pull_ to England for _centuries_. He didn't even like the country all _that_ much. He hated the weather, the food, the politics, and many other things too. Sure, England had some great guys and lean pilots. But- Why did he always find himself returning to him?

After all these years, maybe it was just reflex.

That they slept in the same bed was also a reflex. It was an unspoken war-time agreement and understanding.

Sleeping together helped with the nightmares.

If America would arrive late- which he usually did- he would slump down in the bed after taking off his jacket and spread himself across the bed. England would grumble and shove him aside, only to pull him closer but in a comfortable position. America would adjust himself and then feel happier and calmer than he had all day with England's breath on the crook of his neck and his arm around his small torso. If England was asleep before him- which he usually was- he would put his nose in his hair and inhale his scent- it was far more comforting than he would ever admit- and kiss his forehead. America would then feel his spine slowly relax and sleep deeply.

Sometimes one of them would awake in the night.

Usually England- The raids back home would cause him to wake up screaming and bleeding on his sides and arms and chest. America would very nearly have a heart attack.

England always silenced himself after that.

He didn't want to wake the men.

It was very much like him.

England would then bite his lip so hard that it would bleed and shut his eyes, trying to hide the tears. America would lie him down and tend to the wounds- England would try and push him away but it is difficult to do so when one is mad with pain. England would hide his face with the back of his hand. He was too proud.

Sometimes he would laugh sourly. The sound was strained and horrible.

He would then promptly try and sit up and attend to his own wounds, which resulted in him sitting in the army cot and resting his head on America's shoulder, chest to chest, arms drooping down numbly.

He was getting good at feeling numb.

When the raid would be over, he would pass out, and America would lay him in the bed and sleep next to him. The next morning, England would complain about the blood on the bed and say that he will punch Ludwig- Among other things.

America often thought that they were seeing the war as much too casual these days.

Surviving and moving forward- Keep 'em flying!

It was really a reflex.

The whole thing was ridiculous, the war propaganda.

America was jealous of Captain America.

England thought that _that_ was ridiculous.

_The Star Spangled Man with a Plan._

In many ways, that was the exact opposite of America himself. He never had a plan.

But the song was so _damn_ catchy.

He liked the comics, too. If he had time, he would lie on his army cot in his itchy uniform that smelled like dirt and rain, and read the same magazine for as long as he could. It helped him forget that there was a war on.

Sometimes England would see him with the comic on his cot, illuminated with a single gas lamp. The light made strange shadows on the sides of the tent.

"'Captain America' again?" England asked from the opening of the tent.

"Yeah." America replied, in a gentle tone, briefly looking up from his comic.

England's uniform was dirtied, with mud and blood, and his boots were stained.

America guessed that the blood was a mix of his own and his men.

Bad day, he supposed.

His thumb caressed the page he was one, and he heard England shift slightly and hesitantly walk over to him. The cot shifted as England sat on it next to America.

What happens next should have really not surprised him.

It really shouldn't have.

England leaned over to him and rested his head on his shoulder.

"Just- Just don't say anything, alright?" England said in a quiet voice, biting his lip and keeping his eyes trained on the dirty ground. America swallowed thickly and tried very hard not to move. His hands slipped from grasping the magazine.

"Okay." He replied hoarsely.

England shifted slightly and turned his head to that he was almost resting against America's chest. He inhaled a shaky breath and when he let it out, it was like he had exhaled his heart and soul. It sounded painful.

America felt unsure about where to place his hands.

He eventually decided to shift his arm, causing England to move his head and look straight into America's eyes.

England's eyes seemed darker than they really were in the light of the tent, and his hair was messed up and his face was stained with cuts, bruises, and dirt.

America still thought he was beautiful.

It made his heart hurt.

America reached an arm around England, just below his shoulder blades- Gently. He knew he had a gaping wound there. England stared at his lap, where his gloved fingers were fiddling with themselves. He seemed to be thinking, and eventually, he decided to hesitantly reach out and hold America's hand in his own.

America was fairly sure he wasn't breathing anymore.

England's hand was slender and fit with his perfectly. It was- It was bittersweet.

England's head was slumped and he leaned back on America's shoulder. America kept the hand around his shoulders. England kept the hand holding his.

America stared at England's head, and felt his eyelids drooping slightly.

He swallowed.

"You- You okay?" America asked after some time, eyebrows furrowed.

"I don't think- I don't think I've been okay for a very long time." England said, his voice cracking.

America didn't know how to reply to that.

England was here, _in his arms, _laying out his heart and baring himself openly like he never did, he was peeling his layers of protection and being so _honest_.

America licked his lips.

"We'll turn the lights back on in Europe, you know. Together. We can get through this," He started slowly and in a hushed tone that surprised him. "You and I."

England turned and looked at him again.

"Are you- Are you only saying that for the military morale's sake?" He said bluntly, eyes trailed down again.

America paused.

"No."

It was the single most truthful word he had spoken for a very long time.

England inhaled a shaky breath.

"Why then?"

"'Cause it's you. And me. Not- Not England and America. Just you and me. "

And what else could he say?

England stared at him.

America stared back.

It was like he saw everything in slow motion.

Both leaned in slowly, gently, breath on each other's lips.

It was a reflex.

America pressed his lips against England's.

England shifted towards him, and America moved further into him.

It was like he was sinking.

America pulled away after a while and looked at England, then rested his forehead against England's and grinned. England smiled shyly.

They didn't say a single word.

They didn't have to.

:::

_Another drabble. I'm so sorry. I had no idea how to end it, but at least this has another consistent theme? It's cohesive with 'Permanent Falling' if you squint._


End file.
